Butterfly Effect
by Bitchii-Usa
Summary: Life shows us all that one moment can define the rest of our lives. For Bulma, it's telling the truth regarding a tragedy that haunts her. For Vegeta, it's facing the dark demons of his past that torment him daily. Forced to undergo psychiatric evaluations in a mental health hospital, both of them will learn to live. And live through each other. A Vegebul AU. Dark/Mature
1. Case File 001- Bulma

_"It speaks to our larger expectation that the world should be comprehensible – that everything happens for a reason, and that we can pinpoint all those reasons, however small they may be. But nature itself defies this expectation"_

-Peter Dizikes

OooOooo

 **CASE FILE 001- BULMA**

OooOooo

The clock is loud, ticking in her ear relentlessly. A steady metronome of time that pesters her like a noisy fly. _Tick. Tick. Tick._ Damned thing makes it so hard to focus on anything else. She can't think past the small clinks against the glass frame of the clock, let alone hear the words of the man in front of her.

His leg is crossed on top of the other one, his elbow resting on his knees. The skin around his eyes crinkles like used tissue paper, adding depth to his intense stare at her. He wants something from her, a reply to the words he spoke. His thin lips press into a tight line like he disproves of her silence. Of course he disproves. Everyone looks at her like that, now.

"Why do you refuse to answer the question, Bulma?" His tone is like sweet honey, meant to sop her up until she finds him worthy of her trust. She hates when he talks to her like that. Like they're old friends. Like he thinks of her in the highest regard.

She bends the ends of her long sleeve in her palms and folds her arms over her chest, looking away from him. Her eyes shift to the clock, following the long hand as it _ticks_ away the seconds. She wishes that it could tick her away, too.

"Bulma."

"I don't know what you want from me." She refuses to look at him, instead focusing on the fibers in the muddy green carpet. It's an ugly old carpet that makes her want to vomit, and she can't understand why he thinks it's necessary to decorate the place with it.

"I only want you to answer the question. Would you like me to repeat it?" She rolls her eyes and pouts at his suggestion, not appreciating the gentle way he talks to her. She wishes he would swallow his sugared words and regurgitate something more raw, something more aligned with the way he _must_ view her. He clears his throat when she says nothing, and she can hear the shuffling of his papers in his lap. "I want you to take me back to that night, Bulma. I want you to tell me what was going through your mind."

She scoffs, feeling her cheeks heat up as her brain replays that moment without her consent. She can still smell the lingering stench of pancakes from that afternoon, can still hear the cheap television comedy coming from the living room. She can still feel the way her fingers began to prune under the water as she hovered over the tub, as she hovered over him-

"Miss Briefs?" She still says nothing, biting her jaw so roughly she can taste the iron of her blood. She hears him sigh with annoyance, but it doesn't make her want to talk. If anything, she wants to close her eyes and pretend this is all a nightmare. "Listen to me, I _want_ to help you. I want to be able to get through whatever barriers you have to give you some sort of leverage here. But I can't do that if you don't talk? We've sat here for forty five minutes already and you still have yet to tell me anything about yourself."

Bulma shrugs her shoulders, taking a deep breath of her own. Even the thought of having to discuss anything about herself makes her chest hot with anxiety. Her tongue dries up, but she finally turns to face him, staring through the lens of his glasses to lock contact with his eyes the color of snow. "What do you want me to say, huh?" The corners of her eyes sting, begging her to let the tears fall, but she wills them away before they can do so. "You want to hear about me? About good ole Bulma Briefs and her _fabulous_ life?"

"Fabulous, you say?" He jots something down on the clipboard in his lap, briefly taking his eyes off of her. She watches him scratch his pen to the paper, and she can't help but wonder what type of adjective he's using to describe her. "What about your life makes you feel that it is fascinating?" His eyes slide back up to her then, looking at her over the brim of his glasses.

"Are you kidding me? Why would it not be? Unlike other people, I don't have to worry about money. I never have to worry about a job, or paying my bills." She leans back against the couch and crosses her legs, an arrogant smile spreading across her face. "Life's been pretty sweet to me. I come from great stock; my parents are stellar looking and I'm not so bad on the eyes myself. I can make a man wet himself just from blowing him a kiss. Honest to god," she says with a cocky smirk, raising her hand in the air, "I've seen it happen."

"I am aware that you consider yourself to be attractive, Bulma, but what else makes your life fulfilling? Outside of material things, that is. I'm just trying to understand you."

"Simple, really," she presses her finger lightly to her temple, her face taking on a more serious expression, "I'm smart. And not in some silly way that girls like to act. Reading a newspaper over some scrambled eggs doesn't make you some genius. But _me,_ well I can run circles around the best scientists in this country. I even managed to blow them out the water at the National Science Convention. You have that somewhere in your notes, right?"

He fidgets with his glasses as he looks through his papers, nodding his head. "Seems so. It's very impressive Bulma, really it is. As young as you are and are already looking at being named one of the top scientists of this decade. Do you enjoy the work you've put in at Capsule Corps?"

"I certainly do," she smiles tenderly at the mention, memories of all of her achievements flooding her mind. Capsule Corporation is her pride, her baby. It's the lover she sleeps next to when she's feeling lonely, the ache in her heart when she's away from it. "My father built that company, you know. I got to watch it grow from a seed of an idea into a multi-billion dollar technological research facility. _Enjoy_ isn't a strong enough adjective for what I do."

"So tell me then," he puts his papers on the coffee table to his right, folding his hands over his knee, "If you're so satisfied with everything in your life, what do you think happened _that_ night? Why suddenly a glitch in the matrix?"

Her smile wanes until her mouth straightens into a thin line and she looks to the floor again. Why do they have to keep going back over this? Bulma's already given her answer for what happened that night - _she doesn't know._ She doesn't know why she let her brain take the back seat to her rationalization, why she let her emotions become the driver of her body. She wishes he would stop asking her so that they can get to the _root_ of her problems. Like when she'll be able to go home. Like if she has a shot of beating this sort of thing.

The door opens suddenly behind them, a tall, slim woman walking through the door. She holds papers to her chest, her eyes temporarily sliding over to Bulma. She struts over to him, passing him the paperwork as stiff as the gleam in her eyes.

"Eighteen," he takes a sip of water from his glass on the coffee table, sternly looking at her, "You can't interrupt my sessions like that. The privacy of my patients is _very_ important."

"I thought I should tell you that you're ten minutes past the appointment. Your next patient is here and he's getting on my nerves about seeing you. I don't like this one at all, Dad."

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head at her, staring her down. His eyes dance over to Bulma, an apologetic grin stealing his lips. "It seems as if we've gotten carried away, Miss Briefs. I feel like we should pick up where we left off tomorrow. Maybe then we can discuss more about what goes inside that brain of yours. Does that sound good to you?"

Bulma stands promptly, feeling stuffy inside of this claustrophobic office. She's got to get out. Got to get some fresh air and erase her mind of these ghosts of memories. Maybe even smoke a few cigarettes to feel better. "It's what I've gotta do, right? I don't have a shot in any court room without the good ole assessment of Dr. Gero, after all."

He nods, but his eyes show that he isn't entertaining her sarcasm. "Perhaps, but maybe you'll also find a breakthrough yourself, right? That's the sort of gift that keeps on giving."

"Don't patronize me, doctor. I don't need a fucking psych evaluation; I need a drink and a better lawyer."

"Don't we all, Miss Briefs," he forces out a chuckle and walks her to the door, the blonde woman clinging close to his side. "Eighteen here will guide you back to the dormitories. After our session tomorrow, I should be able to prepare a med list for you so that you'll be able to see the nurse before bed, but for now you should try to rest. The first night can be tough on anybody."

"I'm _not_ anybody," she responds harshly, glaring at him from the corner of her eye, "I already told you, I'm _Bulma Briefs_. I don't break down so easily."

"Oh my god," Eighteen's tone drips with sarcasm, and Bulma catches the eye roll the woman throws at her, "In here, you're just like _everybody else_." She pushes past Bulma and leaves her bewildered at her rudeness.

"Please excuse my daughter, she's just helping me out with the overwhelming caseload," Dr. Gero smiles earnestly at Bulma, extending his arm through the doorframe. "I'm sure my sons won't be giving you a problem. You can see them to receive your pajamas and toiletries. They're right outside of the double doors to the office." Bulma nods and heads through, halfway listening to him. Outside of these walls, she's just another drugged up drone, isn't she? What does it matter who does what and who she needs to see? To them, she's all the same. She's crazy. Unstable.

A terror.

She swallows hard and exits the office, locking eyes with an impatient Eighteen. A grunt is heard at her side and she looks around to the waiting chair and sees a man sitting there scowling, an annoyed glare shooting daggers from his eyes to hers. He looks to be around her age and for a second she feels pity for him for having to be here. Just like her. They probably think _he's_ a monster too. Just like her.

But then his midnight coal eyes _accuse_ her of something, of what it is she doesn't know. An angry snake slithers around her belly and she lets it crawl through her chest until she blurts out an irate, "What the hell are you looking at!?"

He scoffs, shaking his head at her and standing. A flash of rage blinks over his face quickly as he soaks in her harsh question. _He's not even that tall_ , she thinks with a judgmental sort of arrogance, one that makes her feel better about the way he's staring her down. _And his hair is funny looking too_. It reminds her of a black flame that she wants to blow out, like the feathers on a raven. It makes her blood run cold, really, as she takes in his murderous stare. She really pissed him off, hasn't she?

"Whatever the hell you need to discuss with the doctor, you need to make sure it doesn't cut into _my_ time! I get an hour, same as you, and I don't like to be _late_ ," saliva pools around his mouth as his wild eyes study her face.

Who the fuck does this midget think he is, telling her what to do with _her_ time? Stupid asshole, it doesn't matter if he takes the full hour or not, he _still_ has to be here every fucking day _just like her_. She opens her mouth to tell him so, but she's met with a palm to the face as he walks past her. "You'd better be done on _time_ tomorrow." He calls from over his shoulder.

"Or else _what_?" The anger inside of her rises like a phoenix, spreading its wings until her limbs stretch in rage. "I'll do as I _please_ , thank you! You don't fucking tell me what to do!"

"Go fuck yourself," he says coldly, the tone in his voice making the hair on her neck stand up, "Or are you even _allowed_ to do that here?"

Her cheeks heat up as a rebuttal dies in her throat, her fingers clenching and unclenching around the nerve of this guy. Eighteen walks between them, an amused smile stretching across her face.

"Jesus, children, can we behave like adults? No wonder you idiots are in the looney bin, you're arguing like you're five."

"You can't say that to us!" Bulma pushes an accusatory finger in her face, feeling hotly overwhelmed with the attitude she's been getting. "That's gotta be illegal!"

"Maybe, but who's going to listen to _you_?" Eighteen glares at her comically, as if Bulma is an insect ready to be squashed. "Who's going to listen to either of you? If you ask me, you'll be lucky if someone comes to check on your ass for the next year. I sure as hell wouldn't. And what about you, tough guy? Got any more words you want to toss over to her?" She turns around to face him, but instead she's met with a heavy slam of the wooden door. A shrill laughter escapes her lips and she tosses her head back before turning around to Bulma, a hint of mockery sleeping under her grin.

"Well I can definitely say that _this_ will be entertaining. I'll buckle my seatbelt for this ride. Okay, blue," Eighteen walks as if she's some sort of fashion model, making Bulma green with envy. She remembers when she could strut around like that, like nothing mattered past the curve of her hips or the sharp slant of her eyes. "Head on down through these double doors and go see my brothers. They'll give you a room assignment and take you to meet your new bunk buddy. Try not to give them a hard time, okay? Seventeen's a real sucker for exotic colors." She laughs again as she sits back down to her seat, playing through her smart phone. Bulma glares at her for a few tense seconds before looking back to the door again. The name on the door - _Dr. Gero_ \- stares back at her and reminds her of what just happened with that short asshole. The little prick.

She can't believe how incredibly rude these people are. She can't believe that, outside of the doctor, she'll be forced to see the slick mouthed Eighteen every day. Or that little troll with the bad attitude and even worse manners. She can't believe that this will be her life for the next year, that she'll have to live _that_ bad dream over and over again in her mind, like some sort of cursed film.

Bulma finally tears her stare away from the door and Eighteen, turning around to walk down the long, brightly lit corridor. She hates it here. She hates herself for putting her here. She hates _him_ , for not being around to tell the truth. The truth that no one seems to believe. The truth that she has to fight to be heard.

It's too much. It's all too much.

As Bulma heads through the double doors, she finally lets the tears slide down her cheeks. For a brief moment, she feels alive.

oooOOooo

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **This is just an idea that I had and my fingers itched to write it down. I'm not sure if I'll finish it or how often, but I figured I'd see how the responses were. If this plot (which if I haven't made obvious, involves Bulma in a psychiatric ward for reasons unclear at the moment) interests you, then please R &R!**_


	2. Case File 002 - Vegeta

**CASE FILE 002: VEGETA**

oooOOOooo

Vegeta _hates_ when people look at him like this. Absolutely despises it.

It's one of the main reasons he refuses to speak to this man, or anyone else in this goddamned facility. It's bad enough that he's surrounded by a bunch of complete bozos in here; day in and day out shrieking and yelling and laughing and just so much _goddamned noise_. He can't run from it, can't escape from it, can't close his eyes and sleep it away. And just when he thinks he can grip the edges of his fleeting sanity, he's forced to meet with the good doctor and perform a staring contest for hours. Forced to bite out half phrases and grunt replies that let him skate on the line of participation and avoidance. Just enough to get the asshole to sign his daily papers showing that he's 'utilizing time properly,' a suggestion from his shitty lawyer.

All while sitting under the weight of Dr. Gero's plastic stare. One that's baked with indifference and sprinkled with care so that Vegeta can swallow it prettily. But his psycho-babble concern can shove itself right up the doctor's wrinkled ass. Vegeta knows without a doubt that _no one,_ not a single soul in this shit stain existence, gives a damn about him or his problems. This man's just here to do his job, but it doesn't mean Vegeta has to help him out in that regard. No one's ever helped him out. Not really, anyways.

Dr. Gero slips his eyes to his watch, and Vegeta follows suit. He forces down a chuckle at how risky the old man is, wearing a watch that sparkles with diamonds and other jewels. Such an exquisite piece of jewelry is enough to get a man like Dr. Gero killed. A few months ago, the killer might have even been Vegeta himself.

"It's been fifteen minutes, Mr. Nouija," he breaks apart Vegeta's inner thoughts and takes a deep breath. He sits back in his chair and folds a leg over the other, studying Vegeta's face intently. He wants to tell him to stop fucking staring at him like that, the filthy prick. Stop with the glossy eyes and pursed lips under his thick moustache. Stop the wrinkles around the eyes that crease slightly when he's about to ask Vegeta a question. Just stop it. "Are you not feeling up to talking today?"

"I don't know what the hell you want to talk about." Vegeta slides his eyes to the end of the sofa he's sitting on and crosses his arms, defending himself against an imaginary attack from the doctor.

"Really? After six months of our visits, that's still a mystery to you?" Dr. Gero takes a deep sigh, one that makes Vegeta's fists ball against the insides of his sleeves. For a millisecond, Vegeta is reminded of a certain deep sigh that came right before he would be socked in the jaw. Right before his head would hit the cement and a heavy boot would attempt to crush his skull. He reminds himself that this isn't that situation, that Dr. Gero isn't _him_ , but it doesn't stop the slight panic that races through his chest, either. "How about today we focus on what seems to make you tick. What ignites that burning rage that you say you get sometimes. I think that's a good topic to start with today."

"Everything pisses me off." _You're pissing me off_ , he wants to say, but then Dr. Gero won't play fair if he does that. Probably write down in his notes that Vegeta needs to be left in solitude so that he's not a threat to the ward's population. Which Vegeta wouldn't completely mind, 'cept the food in the solitude pods are shitty and he can't eat as much as he'd like to, even if he did enjoy it.

"Perhaps, but I notice today you seem a bit more… _aggravated_ than normal. Is your bunk mate bothering you again?"

 _He's always fucking bothering me_. And Vegeta isn't exaggerating. The person he's forced to share a living space with is fucking insane, and not because he's in a psych ward either. It's because he's annoying as all hell, always giddy and happy and laughing and squealing. Always trying to get Vegeta to hang out, trying to get Vegeta to play cards or build those stupid jigsaw puzzles. Keeps calling them friends, keeps ignoring the murderous gleam in Vegeta's eyes whenever they speak.

But right now, the man isn't the sore spot in Vegeta's sour mood.

So instead he just gruffs out a, "No."

"Did something happen today? You know that this space between us allows you to speak confidentially. You can gripe or complain about anything you'd like and I won't breathe a word of it, seeing as it doesn't apply to your criminal case, that is."

 _Fuck you._ God, Vegeta wants to rip the few white hairs the man has left on his greasy scalp. Gripe or complain about anything he'd like? How about how he doesn't want to do any of these goddamned sessions anyways, how no amount of therapy can save him from the hell that is himself or this world. How he wishes the court system would give up on him and just accept the fact that he's fucking crazy but not crazy enough that he can't do his time in fucking peace. He's got a clear enough head and he doesn't need to see a goddamned shrink. But he's got to do it so that he can meet these shitty requirements to get on with everything already. So he shows up every day at his appointed time with fucking _bells on_ , ready to give just enough. And nothing more than just enough.

Which brings him to why he's so fucking _pissed._

There's a system here, an unwritten one at best. And that system goes a little something like this: don't get in Vegeta's way and he won't get in yours. It's simple, one that his bunk mate doesn't seem to honor, but he's gained Vegeta's respect in other ways so he gets a pass (barely). Everyone else leaves him be, either out of their own fear or their own blissful realities that don't include him, but at least he can come and go as he damn well pleases with no distractions. He can eat, shit, sleep and see Dr. Gero in a clockwork like system, and it's been working well for him for the past six months.

And. Then. She. Fucking. Makes. Him. _Wait_.

And whatever, Vegeta could've gotten over the fact that he can't have his appointment on time like he does _every fucking day_. He could've moved past the fact that now he'll have to stay longer through the session, which will throw off his daily run and powerlifting in the exercise room, which will probably make him late for dinner. Which means that by the time he gets around to desert, the good stuff will be taken and Vegeta will be left with fucking green jello. But whatever, he could've gotten over that by the time he went to bed.

But then she had the goddamned nerve to look at him like _he_ was wrong? She threw him attitude like _she_ wasn't the inconvenience? Who the hell did that stupid woman with the weird ass blue hair think she fucking was to stand up to him like that? She should've apologized to him and promised to get her shit together but _oh no_ , she thinks she's tough one.

And that stupid cunt Eighteen. Vegeta really hates her, but at least it's established. She thinks she's above him because she gets to leave this dumpster every night and go home to some vaginal hand blender that replaces a boyfriend. But she knows that she's a bitch, and she knows that he doesn't like her, and he knows that she hates him too so they both just leave each other the fuck alone. Vegeta knows what would be the truth of their dynamic, if this facility wasn't in the way. But then old dumb fuck blue just sets up a mocking stage for Eighteen to throw her unwanted two cents around and all of a sudden it's 'grow- a- pair - of- balls - day' at the West City Psychiatric Center. By the time he even made it to sit on this uncomfortable sofa, Vegeta was _livid_.

But none of that is Dr. Gero's business, especially considering he's so close with his children here. The last thing he wants to do is create a headache for himself when he's set up a social balance that works well for him given the circumstances. So he simply shrugs his shoulders and mutters out a, "People just don't respect the way things go. Puts me in a bad mood."

"Aah respect, one of the foundational cores that we have as humans. It's natural to be upset when you believe someone isn't treading lightly on what you deem as respect. But tell me something Vegeta, is that really a reason to get so worked up?"

"I don't care if it is or isn't, it just happens."

"And what happens when you lose control of that? When you slip into the part of you that does things without remorse or regret? Anger is a strong emotion, you know. It causes us to do things we aren't proud of. Causes us to lose our common sense. And you seem like a smart man, Vegeta."

Vegeta can't bite back the scowl that escapes his lips, nor the meshing of his eyebrows at Dr. Gero's wasted compliment. He hates when people try to coax others into talking by throwing around vanity. There's only one way to get something out of people, and that's sheer terror. And he'll be damned if he _ever_ gives anyone that satisfaction again.

As if Vegeta doesn't know he's smart. Of course he's goddamned smart. One doesn't see the things Vegeta's seen, learned the things he's learned without gaining a shred of knowledge or two. He's so confident that he could give Dr. Gero a run for his own money in regards to his fancy diplomas on the wall, but he just never had the luxury of affording college. Doesn't mean that he isn't smart.

"Can we cut this session short today?" Fuck this, Vegeta doesn't care anymore. Let the doctor write whatever the hell he wants, Vegeta's too wound up. He can feel his heart racing wildly in his chest, can feel the lump of anger swelling in his throat. Screw this session, screw that bitch, screw the doctor, screw it _all,_ he just wants to punch things. Before he punches _someone_.

Dr. Gero sighs, scribbling something down on the clipboard in his lap. He shakes his head lightly, pinning his eyes down to whatever he's just written. "You know, my hope for you is that you let whatever shell that surrounds you break. You could have a real breakthrough here, Mr. Nouija, if you just let yourself. Talking it through is the first step." He finishes the note and stands, passing it to Vegeta when he reaches the sofa.

Vegeta reaches for the slip but Dr. Gero hasn't released his hold on it. He's watching him with sympathy now, staring at him the way a father does to his son. "You remind me so much of myself when I was younger, Vegeta. I was angry, _so angry_ , because everything I loved had been taken from me. And just between you and me, I did a lot of things I wasn't proud of. Some things that could have gotten me in a lot of hot water. But with the right people in my life, I began to look at things differently."

"So?" Vegeta needs to get out of this room. The edges of his vision are burning away with chips of red, narrowing around the doctor until his body is outlined in rage. "What the hell is your point?"

"I could really help you, Vegeta. If you'd just let me."

Vegeta stares at the old man for a bit longer, and he's willing to bet that somewhere inside, Dr. Gero's feeling mighty proud of himself. Probably feeling like he's spoken some magical concoction of words that will make Vegeta's resolve break. Make him fall into a puddle of emotions as he bleeds his problems over the room. He imagines that Dr. Gero would greedily sop up his torment for his own guilty pleasures, ones that he'll leave on his shelf in a case study binder of all the looneys he's seen over the years.

Vegeta wants nothing more than to shatter that hope.

He snatches the paper with renewed gusto, standing to his feet swiftly. He looks down at the note and clicks his lips, wanting nothing more than to crumble it up and throw it away. _Add an extra forty minutes to tomorrow's session with V. N'Ouija_. Fucking fantastic, two hours with this nutjob. Fuck that blue haired bimbo straight to hell.

"Give that to Eighteen please on your way out, she'll take care of the rest." Vegeta doesn't even dignify that with a response. Doesn't turn around and see the doctor staring him down, although he's willing to bet that he is. No, the only destination Vegeta's going is to the exercise room to release some tension.

He just hopes he doesn't get stuck with that shitty green jello afterwards.

 **oooOOOooo**

Per usual, the dining hall is too crowded, too loud, and too theatrical for Vegeta's tastes.

He clutches his tray tightly against his abdomen. He's not sure if it's anxiety or muscle strain that causes his stomach to clench in tight bursts, but he's finding it unbearable to even be in this room. _This_ is why he likes to arrive early. He likes to pick his seat before anyone else does so that he can get a good view of the window. So he can stare out of it while he eats, pretends that he's somewhere else with less irritating people. But now as his eyes scan the room, all of the good seats are taken.

Vegeta grits his teeth and digs his fingers into the plastic of his solid blue tray. Now's the part where's he's got to make a decision of how he's going to spend the next thirty to forty minutes for dinner. He's picking and weighing the options of the limited seats available to him, sizing up the stool owners by way of who will aggravate him least. So far, he doesn't have very many options.

There's the bald man with the cigarette burns on his face, Krillin. He's at one of the good tables, the one that has a clear window to the oak tree outside, and he isn't sitting with very many people. Krillin doesn't talk much, unless it's to Vegeta's bunk mate, and when he does he can barely look anyone in the eye. It reminds Vegeta of those jobs, where he'd be forced to deal with the weak saps who would piss their pants the moment he would grab them by the collar. Vegeta doesn't like to let his comfort zone down in the presence of fear, makes him feel like he's working. Plus Krillin is prone to have emotional episodes where he remembers the abuse he suffered during his childhood and teen years. In those moments he would squirm and wail until the nurses escorted him back to his room. Nope, Vegeta would pass on that; he'd rather eat his dinner (and the last piece of lemon meringue pie) in peace. Besides, where Krillin goes his bunk mate is sure to follow. And that was something that he'd rather avoid all together.

Then there's the other good table, the one that sits near the only other window in the dining hall. Tien is there, the man who resembles the character on the floor cleaning soap. Tien is tolerable, and Vegeta finds he can sit with the man and forget he was there all together. But Tien would carry on long conversations with someone that only he could see, some short creature he called Chiatozu. Tien liked to draw him from time to time and show him off to others, delighting in how close they were. He looks like a pokemon, Vegeta thinks, but he doesn't care enough to tell Tien so. Their conversations would carry on in long bursts that kept Vegeta distracted because of the nature. He would find himself wondering why Tien said this or how can he see something that isn't there? He knows this is a psychiatric ward and things like this are a given, but Vegeta doesn't think _he_ has the same issues as that hate people here. He's here by circumstance not by truth, he doesn't give a damn what the doctors or courts say. Besides, imaginary conversations doesn't sound like an appetizing addition to his chicken noodle soup, so that's a no to Tien as well.

A few tables down from where Tien sits provided an opening. There is only one guy there, and from what Vegeta understands, he is a mute. It doesn't provide very much visual to the outside, but at this point he just wants to sit the hell down already. His soup's getting cold and his stomach is empty and damn it all to hell if he can't sulk over a hot bowl of anything right now. He beelines to the table, keeping his eyes hardened and straight and ignoring the shit storms of conversation around him.

He's just sat down in his seat, just crushed his saltine crackers in his soup while pretending its himself. He's just stirred the crackers around in the creamy broth and about to take a bite when he hears the clattering of footsteps approaching the table. He doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to acknowledge whoever the hell this is. The way Vegeta's feeling, anything that escapes his mouth right now is sure to end with him sitting in the 'Time-Out Room' like he's some testy toddler.

The soup has gotten cold, only pissing him off more, and he's almost curious to see who is hovering over him like a police officer. He's just about to take his eyes off of his meal when a voice beats him to it, soft and feminine and _angry_.

"Hey! Jackass!" Now Vegeta's attention is captivated. He almost lets a grin loose, one that will give a silent compliment to the woman standing above him. He chokes it down with a swallow of soup, although he's sure the humor in his eye is a mischievous one. She slams her tray on the table and tries to keep her voice down, although her eyes are blue planets set on fire. He's sure he's dousing in them, the way she's looking at him like that.

"I don't fucking appreciate what you did to me earlier outside of Dr. Gero's office. I'm his client as well as you and I'll take however long I need to in my session. Make that the last time you bitch at me like that."

Well, well, _well_! Would you lookee here? Vegeta is almost knocked off of his chair at her fiery tongue. She's got balls indeed, a lot more than maybe he gave her credit for. There's no apprehension under her bladed words, no hesitation in her clipped tone. She means every word that she tosses at him, and if he was a gambling man, he's willing to bet that she's not even screeching at him like she _wants_ to.

"Oh? Is that a threat, little bird? Are you really thinking it's a good idea to be threatening _me?_ "

She folds her arms and stands straighter, glaring down on him with the intensity of a thousand suns. Even in all of her anger, it's hard to take her seriously when her hair is the color of the fucking sky. It makes her look unreal, like some childish drawing that Tien drew. The long ponytail she's styled it in doesn't make her look any more concrete either.

"I know your kind," she seethes, letting each syllable sharpen on her tongue before she spits it at him, "You think you're top dog around here for whatever alpha male reason you have. But at the end of the day, you're still in the fucking psych ward with the rest of us . You call no shots and I don't have a single reason to be afraid of you." She glints her eyes as she tries to conceal her malice, but her efforts are futile.

Now _that's_ a look Vegeta doesn't mind. A challenge. A gaze as hard as brick. It's been awhile since Vegeta's seen this kind of look, one that he's sure would make a weak man crumple to his knees in some backyard alley. But Vegeta's far from a weak man. She should be quick to learn that. "You would think that you would know not to mess with the crazies," he bites back with a sense of dark humor, hoping to shatter whatever dominance she _thinks_ she has. "We're the ones who your mommy and daddy probably warned you about in bedtime stories. And yet here you are, quite the fool. No wonder you're locked away in here. "

"Listen, I don't care what it is you're _trying_ to do, but considering our session times revolve around one anothers, I'd like to nip this in the bud. I can tell that you've got somewhat of a sound mind, so I won't hesitate in saying this to you, I'm sure it'll register. Don't ever disrespect me again like that. Are we clear?"

It's almost _comical_ how this little blue bird has such big wings. It almost makes him wonder what she's doing _here_ , wonders if she was picked off the streets as a looney. Drugs, maybe? She could easily be a prostitute, he supposes lots of men would pay for her exotic looks, but the gloss of her hair and the pink in her cheeks and lips say otherwise. She doesn't even have bags under her eyes, not a single blemish on her perfect porcelain face. Vegeta has been taught to look, taught to notice. And he definitely knows what a junky looks like, a crazy one at that. She doesn't exactly fit the bill.

Either way, to hell with her. He doesn't give a damn about why she's here or why she thinks she can speak to him this way, even if he is impressed with her gall. He should be flying off the fucking handle after her 'confrontation', but instead he feels like he's just witnessed a movie or a show. There's no fucking way it can be real, so it can only be seen as entertainment.

And _boy_ , is Vegeta entertained.

He stands and gathers the remains of his dinner, having his fill of human interaction for the day. She's still staring at him with the fire in her eyes, and Vegeta's almost tempted to sit still and watch it burn, but he's got better things to do. And none of them involve engaging with some psychotic bitch who thinks that she can tell him what to do and how to do it.

He brushes past her, his elbow barely touching her side. "Oh little blue bird, with all your bravado, how long is it before your wings are clipped?" He waits to see her reaction, waits for the fear to creep into her eyes so he can feel powerful and bored, and leave her to wet herself at how she picked a fight with the wrong man.

She turns to him then, something unreadable underneath her eyes. Gone is the look of pure anger, and something calmer in its place. Vegeta's seen that look before and it causes a shiver to run down his spine. He's seen that look when he's made a mistake, when he deserves to be punished. When he knows that he's going to get his ass kicked or worse. He holds his breath, trying to pause the part of his brain that insists on replaying that scene for him. "I don't worry about things like that. I clipped my own wings a long time ago. Now I'm just falling until I splatter everywhere." And with that, she turns and leaves, grabbing her tray and not bothering to look back. Vegeta watches her go, feeling that in some strange way, she's managed to turn whatever table he presented. He doesn't stop watching her when she dumps her tray, or when she chugs down the cup of water on the table. He still watches her as she successfully avoids a patient running past her, being chased by a security guard. He doesn't stop watching her until her body disappears beyond the double doors and they slam the announcement of her departure.

The dining hall increases it's loudness as more and more patients pile in, bringing in whatever personas they have on for the day as their plus ones. But Vegeta doesn't hear them, doesn't even hear his bunkmate calling him to sit over with him and Krillin. Doesn't acknowledge someone trying to steal his lemon meringue pie. All Vegeta does is stare past the double doors and seek out the only source of color in these grey walls.

And for the first time in six months, with no one paying attention to witness it, Vegeta smiles.

oooOOOooo

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _So last night I made the mistake-errr, the pleasure! Of thinking out this story through, and boy did I excite myself. I'm once again spanking my butt for updating this before Concerto, but when creativity strikes, I assume you just have to roll with it._**

 ** _I want to disclaim this now: Because this is set in a psychiatric hospital and our favorite (non) Saiyan man is quite the asshole who doesn't have manners, there might be some adjectives used to describe somethings that may seem offensive. And while I promise not to type anything outrageous or belittling (no use of the "R" word here) some of you may not appreciate it. I apologize in advance if that happens._**

 ** _Anyways, if you guys are interested in reading more ( I promise you the plot is good in my very biased opinion!) I ask that you leave a review please. And perhaps a like, a favorite or a kudos if you can :D! Thank you everyone, and happy holidays!_**


	3. Case File 003- Bulma

**CASE FILE 003- BULMA**

 **oooOOOooo**

Gosh, it's _freezing_.

Despite having spent twenty four years living in a revolving season climate, Bulma is still never prepared for winter. There's certain things she enjoys about them, sure - like the way her nose crinkles to a dusty pink at the end of the day, or how the warmth from a cup of hot cocoa really ties the day together- but the blistering cold isn't one of them. Especially not when she has to be outdoors in them. But today isn't about her, she has to keep reminding herself of this. She can take a backseat to today, she'll take a back seat to _any_ day, if it'll be good for him.

"I can't believe there's so many people here." She stuffs her mitten covered hands into her coat, drawing a warm breath in through her scarf. The ice arena is absolutely packed, even though she shouldn't be surprised. Who doesn't enjoy a good ice skate during the winter?

"Great. I guess that means there'll be more people to see me make an ass out of myself."

"You don't know that you will. What happens if you go out there and become the best skater in the rink?" She nudges his side playfully, turning her head to face him. She stares at him with an easy smile until he stops pretending to ignore her. He can't hold his hardened face for long once his eyes meet hers, and he busts out a boyish grin. _God_ , she loves his smile. It's crooked and youthful and bashful and pure. It makes her feel like she's a fourteen year old every time she sees it.

"I don't know. You give me too much credit Bulma." Even through his pessimism, he can't stop smiling like a goof. He looks back to the ice arena again and scans the crowd, his grin slowly dying. She doesn't stop watching him, though. Sometimes she catches herself staring at him for longer than necessary, for what feels like hours. It's more than his good looks. It's everything about him. The sun that sometimes rises on his cheekbones. The thunderstorm that births in his eyes. The way he resorts to a ten year old boy when he looks unsure of something. Kind of like right now.

"Nonsense, Yamcha. I think that you'll do fine, no matter what happens. Tell you what, if you fall I will too okay? We can fall together and everyone will laugh at us. _We_ can laugh at us too."

He blows out a chuckle and a small gust of smoke escapes from his hot breath. He turns back to her and she sees his resolve breaking. A smile stretches across her face and she knows he's going to do it. That's what she loves most about him. He'll try, even if he doesn't think he can do it.

"Fine," he throws his hands in the air momentarily, shaking his head, "You win. But you'd better keep good on your word and fall with me, B. I'll even catch you in my arms before we hit the ice. We'll look like a cheesy movie scene, but at least people will say I'm a gentleman."

"Oh what a guy you are." She giggles and grabs his arm, wrapping her hands around his bicep. Slowly they make their way to the ice and she immediately feels his body tense up as soon as their blades scrape the surface. He's holding out his free arm for balance and wraps the other one around her waist like she's his life saver. He's petrified but he's trying to save face by looking brave. It's absolutely adorable. "It's okay babe, you're doing so good so far!"

He scoffs but smiles anyways, looking to his feet as his legs try to make a steady rhythm with hers. "Well I suppose I've got a pretty great teacher." He glances at her from the corner of his eye, and when he's caught her stare in his web, he tosses her a wink. She rolls her eyes but appreciates his flirting anyways. Another thing she loves about him. No matter how he's feeling, he always makes a motion to romance her. Ever the charmer.

It feels good, being here with Yamcha. It feels good despite the angry cold, despite the cluster of people. After a lap around the ice, she doesn't even notice them anymore. All that matters is him, the ice, and the dim lights of the lanterns above. She's glad he considered listening to her, glad that he agreed to come out. Skating under the stars sounded so cliché to her at first, but now she sees the romantic nature of it. Yamcha's getting better at skating around, and he's holding on to her more comfortably. He's even doing that thing where he drums his finger against her side as he hums, letting her know he's relaxed. That thought alone makes her heart warm up until she feels like she'll burst in sun rays. This is a good idea. This is good for him. Good for her.

Yamcha stops humming and it immediately grabs her attention. She turns to him, and is disappointed to find that his face has grown solemn. His features are stormy and it makes her chest clench. They were doing _so_ good. "Babe? You okay?"

He nods and she feels a bit lighter, but his expression hasn't changed. "I'm just…I'm getting really sad babe."

Oh no. God no, it was happening wasn't it? She can't blame him, she can't hold it against him, but it was happening so often these days. Her tongue goes dry because she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't want to rehearse the same lines that she's been saying, but she doesn't want to experiment and fail with new ones either. So instead she swallows and says, "Why?"

He remains silent for a moment. Bulma realizes just how silent everything around them has gotten as she waits on his answer. She isn't even paying attention to what's in front of her, but luckily they haven't managed to bump into anyone. It's as if everyone around them is waiting on his reply, too.

"Because, B, I'll have to say goodbye soon."

"Goodbye?" Her eyes tear up immediately, even though she doesn't understand why. Suddenly it feels like a brick has formed in her chest, weighing down any ability to breathe. Her throat tightens with lumps of tears, and she finds it hard to hold them back anymore. The cold pricks at her cheeks as a trail of wetness slides down her face. Why is she so emotional? Why does that sentence hurt so much as if she knows what he means?

He nods and offers a sympathetic smile. Finally he turns to look at her, and it's as if Bulma is seeing him for the first time. Every inch of his handsome face is bursting alive in color. She feels like she's going to drown in it. She has the immediate urge to grab on to his face so that she can burn it into her fingers. Into her memory.

"Our time together is up now, Bulma. I wish it wasn't because I don't want to let you go." He stops skating and turns her around skillfully. She can't believe this is the same man who was so afraid to step out on the ice earlier. He grabs her hands into his and leans forward, resting his forehead on hers. He's so warm, such a nice break from the frost. Her heart feels like it's breaking over and over and over again the longer she's near him. She doesn't want him to go. Doesn't want to not be able to see him. Just wants this moment for as long as time can stretch. "I love you so much Bulma. You're my most favorite person in the whole world. You're my whole reason."

But time is such a fickle rubber band.

She can't hold back the sobs as she throws her arms around him, holding him as if their bodies can merge into one. "Yamcha….don't go. Please don't go. I love you so much, don't you get that? I don't want to be without you…I don't want to…please Yamcha…"

"Hey." He gently leans back and grabs her face, cupping it into his hands. His thumb brushes against her cheek, smearing her tears onto his glove. "Don't cry, B. You're too beautiful. God you're so beautiful, my heart breaks every time I look at ya." He steals a kiss to her forehead and lets his lips linger there. She can feel it. She can feel the goodbye that he's stained on her forehead. It makes her cry harder.

"Where are you going, Yamcha?"

He lets her go then, planting one last kiss on her skin before looking at her. His smile is so tender, so warm. "It's not me that's going anywhere, babe. It's you. It's time for you to wake up now."

 **oooOOOooo**

Bulma jerks upright, gasping for precious breaths. Her brain struggles to familiarize itself with her current surroundings. Gone are the ice rink and night sky and lanterns. And Yamcha…he's gone too. Just like he said. There's just white cinderblock walls now. Just white walls and the soft snoring of her bunk mate. And no Yamcha. No Yamcha at all.

Bulma throws her face into her hands and lets out a wretched cry. It feels as if it comes from the pit of her belly, and she can't stop the tears that flow from her eyes. She desperately claws her face with her fingers as if she can touch him, as if he'll be there when she pulls her hands away. Oh what she wouldn't give…

She can't stop the wailing that explodes from her mouth. She tries to be quiet, tries not to wake her bunk mate. But every sob is a reminder, a memory. And that dream was too real, too vivid.

Bulma feels as if she finally knows what rock bottom feels like, no matter how long she's been pretending everything will be fine.

"Hey, Bulma!" She doesn't even care that much that she's woken up the girl sleeping across from her. She just doesn't feel satisfied of these tears. She feels like she has so much more to cry about. "Are ya sick over there?"

Bulma shakes her head no, wiping the back of her snotty nose with her hands. She wants to tell her that she's okay and to go back to sleep, but the words die out in her throat, completely replaced with mucus. She hears rustling of sheets and then a dip in her bed. When she looks up, the girl is sitting there offering a tissue, her face bright and innocent. "My Pa says a runny nose won't do ya better with a cold. That's what my Pa says. He says it, ya know."

Bulma forces a smile and a nod and accepts the tissue, although it ends up balled in her lap. Poor girl thinks she has a cold. Wouldn't serve her any good to know what's really bothering her anyways. She takes a deep breath and tries to collect herself, feeling a little more prepared to get a grip on her emotions. Finally she can mutter out a, "Thank you Chi Chi."

"Welcome!" Chi Chi smiles at her with absolutely no idea that Bulma is heartbroken. She kicks her legs back and forth on the bunk, staring at Bulma with such innocence. It makes her envious. Envious that she can't be that cheerful. All Bulma feels right now is crushing sadness. "Ya feelin' better yet?"

Bulma lets out a sigh. She knows that she can't talk about it, even if Chi Chi could understand her emotional level. There's just somethings better left unsaid, is all. "Yeah, I just had a bellyache. I feel much better."

"I got a bellyache on my first night too. You'll get used to it though. The food is healthy and the medicine ya get makes ya sleep good. But you gotta take it, ya can't be like those delinquents that try to hide it under their tongue. No sir, you don't wanna get caught up in that gang activity."

"Gang activity?" Chi Chi's face has grown serious, and she's staring at Bulma the way a mother does their child. She nods her head and places a hand on her knee.

"Yep! That's what I said when I said it! Between you and me, there's a bunch of knuckleheads around here that don't wanna follow the rules. They don't take their meds and they sneak out of their bunks at night to do devilish things in the yard! Do devilish things they do! Gangs! Gangs!"

"Okay, okay," Bulma quiets Chi Chi down, seeing as her voice has carried. It makes her laugh, kind of, at how serious and angry she looks. "I promise you won't see any gang activity from me."

"I'd hope not because in this room we do things the right way! The right way we do em and the right way they'll be done. Just like my Goku." Chi Chi cups her hands together and stares off at the wall, a blush growing on her cheeks. "He's a do gooder and it's great. He takes his meds on time, participates in groups and even eats all his meals. I think he's the greatest."

"Goku?" Bulma suspected that no one in here got…well…you know… _lonely,_ but the way Chi Chi's talking reminds her and Yamcha. "Is that your boyfriend?"

"He'd better be! I gave him my jello cup a week after he got here and everyone knows that means you're datin'!"

 _I don't think that's how that works, Chi Chi_. Bulma wants to say that to her, even forms it on the tip of her tongue. But that's not her place, not her place to break hearts when she herself is broken. So instead she inquires, "Which one is he?"

Chi Chi stares at her incredulously, as if Bulma is _moronic_ for not knowing. "I'll tell ya, but you'd better not go around catching interest. Go gawk at your own chickens, leave my eggs alone. They're my eggs. Goku's the most handsomest guy here, and he's so _nice_ and strong and funny. I hear he's got a nasty side to him but I think those doctors are lyin. No way that my Goku did those things, nope I don't think so. I think they got him mixed up with that really mean guy he bunks with. That Vegeta fellow he's not a nice guy, not like my Goku."

Really mean guy, huh? It's only Bulma's first night in, but she thinks she's gotten a good idea of the residents. She able to spot the ones who'll most likely make her stay colorful, and the ones that she'll have a hard time adjusting to. And she definitely knows that there's an asshole spreading his anger every fucking where he goes. And she doubts it's because of his mental illness either, not the clear and concise way he talks to her. She can't quite put her finger on it, but there's a certain speck of clarity that lies in the man's eyes that tells her more than she needs to know. Something that makes her think it isn't the run of the mill diagnosis that has him cooped up in here. She wants to call him out on it, wants to say that he's got no business being here. Wants to shake a finger in his face and tell him to go to hell or wherever it is that he belongs, because it certainly isn't a fucking mental hospital.

But then again, she'd have three fingers pointing back at her. And Bulma isn't ready for those accusations yet.

"Is he the shorter guy with the spiky hair and the widow's peak?" She snorts at her own description of him, turning her nose downwards as she casts a glare to the wall. Even bringing him up in conversation is enough to bring a mental image to her mind, and with it a bitter taste on her tongue.

Chi Chi nods, the curve of her mouth turned downwards. "That's the one, the one he is. That's that Vegeta all right. He's so mean, always wanting to tell people to go away. My Goku aint afraid of him though, he's the only one Vegeta talks to for more than a few seconds. That's cause my Goku is the best." There's something proud about the way Chi Chi talks about Goku, even just the way she says his name. Bulma doesn't understand it, doesn't know Chi Chi well enough to doubt her words, but the young woman is certainly eccentric. It makes Bulma skeptical, but hey, at least the girl's got something to keep her spirits up. God knows in this world, you take whatever pick-me ups you can get.

"Yeah I've had the displeasure of meeting him." Her eyes narrow as she remembers their encounter, remembers how hostile he was. The anger in his eyes. It makes her angry, thinking about it now. It makes her fingers grab at her pajama pants restlessly, as more words she'd like to say to him fill her head. She still can't get over him, the nerve of that guy. She doesn't understand why it's bothering her so much, but the thought pierces her belly. She sighs and decides to mentally shake it off. It isn't fair to Yamcha, letting some asshole take up his memory space. The second his name scrolls through her mind, the weight in her stomach sinks to her feet. There it goes again: the sadness.

Now her brain is a tornado of thoughts, completely absorbed with him. That grin, those boyish dimples, his chocolate eyes…. _god._ Bulma bites down on her lip, trying to subdue the sob. Trying to subdue the hurt. Just trying…just trying.

"Hey Chi Chi," she squeezes her eyes shut, feeling her battle a loss already, "I think I'm going to head back to sleep. I'm getting really tired." She hopes the woman doesn't hear the croak in her voice. She hopes she can hold it together for at least a few more minutes.

"Thatta girl!" Chi Chi hops off of the bed excitedly, practically running to her own, "Pa always says a good night's sleep is better tomorrow's wake, he says it! That he says that he does! I'll leave the tissues here and you can help yourself if you need em!" Bulma can't fight the small smile that curves her mouth. Chi Chi is a sweet girl, and maybe Bulma could use some of that cheer. Maybe she could use the giggles and the gossip and the cheerful nature as a means of a distraction, of an escape. Maybe then she could forget that life is just a shit show now. And she's the shitty ringleader of it.

But for now as Bulma crawls under the sheets, she feels none of that optimism. She only feels the overwhelming need to cry. Cry until she can't feel anymore. Cry until the wound in her heart is dry and she can be nothing more than bone. And as she pulls the blanket over her head, she silently does just that.

 **oooOOOooo**

 _Stress Relief and Management._

The sign hangs outside a set of double doors, its thick black lettering pulling Bulma in. For some reason, she can't seem to open the doors to enter. Even though she's required to do it. According to Dr. Gero, she has to attend five group meetings a week. Today marks her first.

Opening the doors, Bulma thinks, means that she'll be forced to do a lot more talking. Means that, unlike her one on one sessions with Dr. Gero, she'll be forced to have all sorts of eyes on her. People who don't know her. People who will either be wrapped in their own minds to pay attention or judge her if they knew the truth. It makes her skin crawl with ice. She can't seem to do it.

She can hear chatter on the other side as if the meeting hasn't started yet. She knows that time is winding down for her to avoid the room. It isn't fair, she thinks, isn't fair that she's wound up in this situation. That she's here when she should be home, should be cuddled with Yamcha. Should be listening to him talk about sports that she doesn't understand, or him playing the ukulele while he sings her some Elvis song. She wishes he was here to hold her. Wishes he could stop playing hide and seek and come out already. God she misses him, he made everything better always. She covers her arms around herself as if she were him. As if she could shelter herself from all of this and wake up from this goddamned nightmare.

"You're in my way."

The needle scratches on Bulma's pity party record. Her eyes burn with heat as she recognizes that _stupid_ voice. She doesn't even bother to turn around. She doesn't want him to see the red of her cheeks or the glisten in her eyes. She won't give him more ammo to use against her.

"There's a more proper way to ask someone to move, asshole." She hangs her arms down at her side in defiance, gripping her fists tightly. "You get more bees with honey than vinegar."

"I wasn't asking you; I'm _telling_ you that you're in my fucking way. There's only one door and you're in front of it."

Bulma groans and she isn't quiet about it either. She definitely wants him to know the inconvenience he's causing her right now. Seriously, mentally ill or not, does he just not have any fucking manners? She tries to wrestle her anger into a chokehold, deciding that this isn't the time nor place to do this with him. "I'm going inside, but it's not because you're a smug son of a bitch who doesn't know how to talk to anyone. I'm going because the meeting's starting."

"Moving feet does not require moving lips."

Ooooh what an _asshole_! Bulma grits her teeth and takes several breaths as she grips the metal handle of the door. If anyone needs stress management, it's definitely her. Putting up with this douchebag has been a headache and then some, and it hasn't even been a full twenty four hours in this facility yet.

She's grateful that there's a seat near the back, away from the middle of the room where the speaker is sitting. She's _almost_ grateful, that is, until she notices that there's only one other seat available. One that is going to house that asshat Vegeta.

Lucky for her, he gets the memo that she wants him to go to hell because he comes in the room and stands near the doorframe, pretending to ignore the empty plastic chair next to her. Good, she won't notice it either, and crosses her legs and folds her arms across her chest in defiance.

The group meeting is small, but packed. The patients are all off in their own tangents, speaking to each other or themselves as they wait for the meeting to start. Bulma won't complain about the noise. It's the quiet that's the problem. It's when all of the extra distractions die down that she's forced to think about it. Forced to deal with it. Forced to suffer through it.

She doesn't get long, though, before the meeting is officially conducted. The leader of the meeting is perhaps the most beautiful man Bulma has ever laid eyes on. There's something angelic about him, something that she can imagine would make her feel comfortable enough to talk. She won't, but he certainly gives off a better atmosphere than stuffy Dr. Gero.

"Hello, everyone!" Even his voice is soothing, Bulma thinks, and he does an effectively good job of quieting everyone down. "Welcome to today's group meeting of stress management. For those of you who are new to the group, my name is Whis and I'm what I like to call the ringleader. My job is to create a safe and comfortable environment for us to share our feelings while learning to deal with them. Your job is to become a little more vulnerable, a little more open. Helping you help yourselves is our master plan here at West City Psychiatrics."

Vulnerable. _Pah_. There's no way Bulma will let herself become vulnerable in a group full of strangers, not even when they are as warm and welcoming as Whis appears to be. For this, she'll just sit back and listen to what everyone else has to say. At least she doesn't feel alone. She doubts that Vegeta will be singing campfire songs in this either, not with his obnoxious attitude.

"Excuse me, sir in the back? Mr. N'Ouija, right?" The entire room turns around to look towards the door, and Bulma can't help herself from turning her head either. He looks uncomfortable, like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes are widened and he looks like he wants to piss his pants. Bulma can't help but to steal a small laugh. He must have heard her because soon accusing eyes dart her way.

"Won't you take a seat? There's an empty chair next to the young woman with the blue hair in the back."

Vegeta stares at her long and hard for a few tense seconds, and Bulma can read exactly what's underneath his glare. She hopes that he knows the feeling is mutual and he can literally go fuck himself. Finally he looks away and clicks his teeth, dragging his eyes to the floor. "I'm fine where I'm at," he grunts out. Is he always so grumpy?

"I understand you may be comfortable, Vegeta, but you see we like to create a sense of community within the room and I don't like to start a meeting when the air isn't right. I can't force you to take part, but then you won't get credit for this meeting either." Whis shrugs his shoulders as if he truly gives a damn, but Bulma knows that it's more of a threat. She realizes that's what they do to you here. They won't demand it, can't legally force it, but put you in a corner to where you have no choice other than to oblige. At least they're getting their college education's worth and putting those psychology degrees to good use.

Vegeta clicks his teeth but pushes his body from against the wall. Bulma doesn't look at him when he walks over to her, but she hears the chair being scooted away from her and feels when he plops down in the seat. For a shorter guy, he sure wasn't skimping on the mass. She rolls her eyes at his temper tantrum. _She_ should be the one fucking upset, shouldn't she?

"Perfect!" Whis clasps his hands together and sits on top of a wooden desk, folding one leg over the other. He's so delicate and fragile that it's almost like watching a spirit in human form. "Now this feels more like a family. And at the end of the day, that's pretty much what we can be to each other. So today like the sign says, we'll be discussing stress management. Here we'll go over tips and tricks to help you when you feel you need it the most, as well as giving you the spotlight to talk about the problems you may feel overwhelmed with."

There's clapping from the front row and Bulma peeks her head above the others to see a short bald man making the noise. She can't see his face, but from his gesture and placement in the audience, he sure is eager to be here. "I'm happy for your enthusiasm, Krillin! You're always such a joy to have in these groups."

"T-Thank you, W-Whis." Krillin talks in a steady low voice, as if he chooses each of his words carefully. Vegeta snorts next to her and she resists the urge to smack him. Being mean to her is one thing, whatever, but Krillin can't help the way he talks.

Whis smiles at him before turning to the dry erase board. Prewritten are bullet points of tips that involve keeping stress at bay. Bulma quickly scans them and is disappointed by how cliché they sound. _Take a deep breath. Count to ten. Close your eyes and imagine somewhere better. Drink a glass of water._ Yeah sure, those things _sound_ good, but who the hell is going to drink a glass of water when they're stressed out and feel instantly better? If that's the case, she wouldn't be here because she would have handed out a _lot_ of glasses of water.

"A lot of us have to deal with high pressured situations sometimes, even while being here. We feel intense stress and anxiety and it can cause us to mislabel how we're _really_ feeling and cast it in another direction. Sometimes we may yell at someone we love, or a complete stranger, or we may want to hurt someone. And none of those are healthy ways of dealing with stress."

Bulma glances at Vegeta out of the corner of her eye. Oh, is that his problem? Is he such a jackass because he's fucking _stressed_? He quickly darts an eye at her back, as if he knows she's watching, and she immediately returns her attention back to Whis instead.

"Does anyone have any right ways of dealing with anxiety or stress? Any ideas, hmmm?"

Like rocket launchers, dozens of hands shoot in the air eagerly. Bulma wonders how many times they've taken this _same_ group meeting. How many times have they given this answer and still be so excited to speak? She could probably learn a thing or two from their optimism. Whis points a finger to Krillin, igniting a bunch of groans that echo across the room. She can't swallow the giggle that escapes her lips.

"I-I think t-that you sh…should talk ab-about it." Bulma can't help but feel affection when she listens to Krillin speak. He tries so hard, and she can tell that he's really focusing on making sure that his words are clear. She understands wanting to be understood. She's a living reminder of what being misunderstood is. "If y-you aren't hon…honest about i-it, then you'll f-feel worse ab-about yourself." Krillin takes a deep breath, as if he feels relieved that he's able to get out his sentence. She wants to clap for him, but she knows that'll probably embarrass him.

"Very good, Krillin. Talking out your problems is a great way to reduce stress. It's always a good idea to talk it out with someone you trust, like myself or Dr. Gero. We're always here to help!"

"Or Ro-Roshi in the li…library. H-He helps me out a l-lot."

"Yes, Roshi in the library. He's been here as long as this building. He's our book master, that's for sure. Excellent feedback Krillin, as always."

"Th-Thank you Wh-Whis."

"Oh my fucking _god_ ," Vegeta scoffs to her right and this time she can't help but to throw her ire his way. She mutters out several assholes for him to hear, and the only sign that he's acknowledging her is the tense biting of his jaw. She wishes she could slap him across his cheek for being such a jerk.

"Is there a problem, Mr. N'Ouija?" Whis's voice is calm, but the hardening of his eyes and the tightness of his words lets Bulma know that he's just as upset. "Do you not agree with our coping mechanisms?"

He doesn't say anything and she's sure that Whis has put him in his place again, that it'll be like before and he'll get in gear. She waits for it, waits to see his shrinking nerve and admit defeat before Whis acts good on whatever threat he's made. But Vegeta's expression is stormy and unwavering and unapologetic. She hears what sounds like a warning growl before he blurts out, "This is all bullshit. None of this shit works. You use Krillin as some sort of before and after commercial, but the dumb fuck _obviously_ isn't better."

Bulma can't believe that she's hearing this. No one warned her that she would be forced to be in the same facility as Satan himself. She can't stop the volcano that erupts in her chest as she turns to him. "There's no need for that you asshole! He's being brave and participating unlike you, you sour puss!"

Vegeta's fiery eyes find home on her face, his expression demanding to know where she's gotten her nerve. She isn't backing down, though. She's had about enough of him.

"Th-that's alright, M-Miss," Krillin's face shows his feelings are hurt, but the poor guy doesn't want to pick a fight. "I-I know that Ve-Vegeta gets an…annoyed by stuff. I-it's okay."

"No it's _not_ okay. You don't deserve to be insulted by this asshole."

Vegeta growls and turns in his seat now, his knee bumping hers. She can feel his attitude radiating from his skin, but she doesn't care. If there's one thing Bulma doesn't tolerate, it's a fucking bully. "Listen here, woman, how about you mind your goddamned-"

Whis claps his hands against his knee, silencing them both. His face is a mixture of annoyance that he thinly masks with a veil of calm. "I'm sorry but this type of conversation is not permitted here. We do not stand for name calling or insults, no matter how upset you are. Kind of defeats the point of stress _management_ , don't you think?"

Bulma feels powerful, knowing that she stood up to Vegeta like that. Feels even more powerful to have Whis on her side, telling Vegeta that what he's said is completely uncalled for….

…Wait.

…Is he accusing her of being disruptive too?

His eyes certainly say so.

Bulma shakes her head defensively, struggling to find the words to explain herself. After all, she _was_ just standing up for Krillin, anyone can see that. Right? "I was only yelling at him for what he said to Krillin!"

Whis takes a deep breath, making Bulma feel worse than the accusation. As if she's a part of his annoyance. "I understand, Miss Briefs is it? But a tit for tat never helps anyone. Calling someone a name because they've upset you isn't healthy. Why don't we use this as a learning tool, hmmm? How about instead of calling Mr. N'Ouija an asshole, you tell him how it feels when you hear him insult someone? Let your anger open the door for a conversation."

Bulma is on _fire_. Because of this grade-A, fresh from the deli asshole now _she_ is being made a spectacle of? And with the whole room watching her on top of it all? Bulma has had _enough_. Oh-hoh but if she's got to go down on this sinking ship, she might as well take Vegeta with her.

She turns in her seat, her tongue bladed and sharp and ready to slice him with her words, when he abruptly gets up, knocking his chair back against the floor. He stomps loudly to the door, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Mr. N'Ouija?" Whis sounds bored, as if he's about to cancel this crazy meeting all together. "Where exactly are you heading to?"

Vegeta stops just shy of the door, the vein in his lower part of his arm throbbing with every open and close of his fists. He doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge anyone with eye contact. "Fuck this," he mutters out before forcing the door open so hard it squawks at the hinges. Bulma flinches as the door slams against the wall outside, and her brain is rattled with thoughts. Why is this guy so _angry_? If he really can't control it, should he be in the fucking general population where _anyone_ can get hurt? He swung the door as if it were made of butter, as if it were putty in his fingers. Would he do that to a person?

…Was standing up to him like that such a good idea?

Whis clears his throat and demands the attention back on him, scribbling something down on his clipboard. Whatever it is, she supposes it can't be good. Can't be good for her, can't be good for Vegeta. God, this is too emotionally overwhelming, she thinks. She can't even save time to think about her own woes because everywhere she turns there's something. Everywhere she turns there's Vegeta with his shit attitude. She really hopes that she'll see less of him. That maybe there'll even be less of him. That wherever she is, he isn't.

Because there is no way in hell Bulma can survive in this place if he's going to be a factor.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

 **oooOOOooo**

 **A/N:**

 **Spoiler alert for Bulma: There's gonna be** _ **so**_ **much more of Vegeta.**

 **Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, or just happy day if you celebrate none of these things! I hope you all are safe and happy and warm, or at least trying to be. If not, here's a hug from me to you :D**

 **Thank you all so much for leaving comments. I never expect them; always appreciate them. Maybe you all can leave one for this chapter too? My obsession for this story is pretty high right now, but I think after this I'll break away to work on Concerto.**

 **Please R &R friendos, and I'll talk to you guys next time!**


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